All That Matters
by Gimpy1
Summary: Sometimes it takes the words of another for you to realize what really matters. [M&M Candy Fic Oneshot]


Title: All That Matters

Author: Dani (aka Gimpy)

Rating: PG-13

Category: Michael/Maria

Spoilers: End of the first season up until the first episode of the second season.

Summary: Sometimes it takes the words of another for you to realize what really matters.

Disclaimers: I don't own the show, nor any of it's characters and I am making no monetary gain from this endeavor... unless you count love from my girl, _shelbecat_.

Author's Notes/Dedications: This is a **Roswell** story but more importantly it's a birthday gift for the greatest person in my life. I haven't been able to give her much over the years but my friendship. I know she'll say that it's been more than enough but sometimes people like her deserve a little more. This is her 'little more'.

Special thanks to Paca by beta. Find any mistakes take it out on him not me!

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Beads of sweat glisten under the faint harvest moon, strained pores seeping as tanned skin contorts. Dark chestnut eyes run rampant under clenching lids, lines of wrinkles fanning out, gathering the slick droplets in salty pools. Thin lips press tightly together, screwing and twisting as a stunted whimper tries desperately to break free from a constricted chest. Whispers of strangled breath burst from flaring nostrils and thick-fingered hands slip into frayed cotton sheets, bunching and grabbing at the cloth in a plea for mercy.

Seedy ghosts in shades of gray rip and tear through the man's troubled mind, scarring his already pained expression. Deafening and intangible sounds rape his ears, forged from the hollowed of his memory. His broad body warps into a shallow fetal position, his only protection from the dark dreams haunting him. The horror chases him, rising from the past and forcing him to remember what he is and what he has become. The line of his back jerks straight, legs kicking out, flailing against the sheets as they bend and twist around him.

He runs from the memories of death, of killing, clawing his way back to the waking world. The sound thunders in response and it startles him, his sweat-endowed back peeling from the drenched sheets, the entombed and tormented cry tumbling from his slack jawed lips.

Hunched amongst the disarray his nightmare inflicted on his modest bed, he gasps for air, hands dipping into dampened hair as his knees habitually pull to his chest. Elbows resting despondently on his bent legs, he fights to calm himself. Lingering flashes of the life he's taken grace the back of his squeezed eyes and he forces them open, refusing to witness it again. He's trembling but he doesn't notice, concentrating on the safer thought of lulling his heaving chest. It works for a moment before tendrils of the dream resurface; so he swivels, dropping his tired legs to the cool floor, elbows finding a place to rest on his thighs, hands delving into his hair once more.

He knows the routine, goes through it every night. It's a constant chase. The memories reap his dreams, destroying his sleep and he runs from them, pushes them back into the hole he dug for them, knowing they will be back the next night. It's a never-ending battle of man vs. mind and the struggle leaves him exhausted and beaten by sunrise.

He has to physically remove himself from the mattress because he's become sluggish and worn, always tired and never rested. Vacating the room that bears his torture, he somberly makes his way to the cubbyhole some would call a kitchen, following the ritual of opening his old fridge and clasping a carton of milk in his hand. Arm stretching above his head to prop against the white appliance, he chugs back the white liquid, shivering as it cools the ungodly heat from the frenetic war waged in his sleep. He siphons hungrily from the cardboard container until his chest screams to breathe then swallows his last gulp to gasp for air.

The open appliance imprisons his body, chilling the heated waterfalls of perspiration that stains his grayed tank top and shorts. The milk is returned and he steps back, letting the door close on it's own. Pressing his lower back into the counter, hands gripping its edge, his chin falls to his chest. The clock on the microwave blinks four am repetitively, the number mocks him because a normal being would still be sleeping. He isn't normal. Has never been normal and the thought irks him almost as much as the nightmare.

He shouldn't want to be normal. There is too much at stake, too much weight on his shoulders. He has a destiny, a purpose. Mediocrity is not a part of that. Yet he wants it and he hates himself for wanting it. The dreams are more than malicious memories they are his reminders. They make sure thoughts of being a soldier are close at hand, that he cannot and will not forge relationships, that he is inhuman and can have no unnecessary ties. They keep him from seeking comfort in the still of the night when his fears try to overwhelm him, make him a lesser warrior.

A prinking thought sounds off in the recesses of his mind. They also keep him lonely, starve him of a love he secretly wants back. He stomps on the thought by shoving off the counter, storming back into his room. Reaching over his head, he grabs at the back of his now clammy tank top and jerks it over his head. With malice, he whips the fabric across the room, jolting when it knocks something off his desk. Cursing, he trudges over to the rarely used piece of furniture pressed against the wall beneath the sole window to his room.

With only the rays from the yellow colored moon to guide him, he bends down to seek out the fallen object. Righting himself, he hesitates to place it back, realizing with a gargled breath that it's the napkin holder he'd made for Maria. The perfectly carved lines he'd worked diligently to create glare up at him, the colors taunting his vision and for a moment he loses himself in the oddly content but annoying memory of her refusal to use it. His resolve weakens, temptation rearing itself on him and he savors it for what it is, knowing he won't ever act on it. They're just thoughts, simple memories of an easier time and a happier him.

Guilt slowly creeps up on him when the darker truth of what he is surges back, the napkin holder swiftly returning to its rightful place on the desk. He thinks about throwing it out to remove the temptation it symbolizes. He doesn't.

Moving to his hamper of clothes, he discards his shorts and digs for the cleaner garments that rest near the bottom. Meticulously he pulls out jeans, a black tee, socks, clean boxers and a flimsy towel before retreating from the room, making his way to the bathroom wearing nothing at all. Piling the bundle in his arms on the counter, he keeps the towel, draping it over a thin metal bar before stepping over the rim of the bathtub.

Mist billows in the small room, the warm spray of water from the shower head caress his sore, tense muscles and lure a moan from his parted lips. He cleans his long, barely manageable hair quickly, but takes his time with his body, laving every inch of skin in a film of soap. Standing beneath the hot water, he lingers, letting the strong drizzle rinse away the suds and a miniscule layer of his stress.

Content that the sweat from earlier is gone, he shuts the water off, a hand reaching out for the strategically placed towel. Drying his body, he leaves his hair to air dry and starts the monotonous act of shaving the pricks of stubble from his jaw. His eyes never meet their reflection, solely intent on his hands as they remove the thin, sharp hairs. After brushing his teeth, he silently dresses, readying himself for an English class he doesn't have for at least another three hours. Time doesn't matter much to him, there's no going back to sleep after one of his dreams, no blissful slumber after the terror of those visions.

Barely satisfied with his appearance, he grabs the towel and leaves the small room, tossing the cotton cloth blindly into his bedroom as he passes it. He makes his way to the couch, dropping before his tiny, obsolete television. It comes to life by thought alone, the remote lost to the fray of cushions and lint long ago. The three hours pass in a mind-numbing meld of infomercials and early morning news, none of which fully registers with the man. It passes the time however and without realizing it, he's late and begins cursing himself for the lecture Isabel is going to bestow him.

He manages to circumvent meeting up with his surrogate sister for two full blocks, manages to bypass everyone from the aptly named pod squad until the lunch bell goes. It's his own double edged sword because as much as he despises having to face them, wandering the halls alone leaves him in a worse disposition than he'd started with that morning.

The loneliness succeeds in making him want to spend the hour allotted to eat with them, so he seeks them out in the one place he knows he'll find one or two of them.

The football team is running drills on the field when he gets there. He watches as Kyle, their newest addition to the squad, and his teammates execute a flawless blitzing play. It's not his favorite sport by far but he admires the strength and unity the team exudes as he walks along the sidelines. Each player has their position, knows where they are to be and what they are to do, they are individual in title but whole in their symbiotic teamwork. It makes him keenly aware of his own misgivings as the proclaimed warrior and a surge of jealousy jumps out at him, forcing him to tear his eyes from the synergetic team.

Averting his gaze to the bleachers that run the length of the field, he searches high along the top row for a familiar face. The sight that greets him causes his feet to freeze. Before him their fearless leader sits pressed thigh to thigh with the one thing he knows unequivocally as his weakness. Blond, unruly curls hide her face from view but he has her body etched in his mind and it takes only a moment to recognize her. Listlessly, her demure hand goes to lift the wall of hair and fails. She giggles embarrassingly and the sound wafts its way to him to burrow in his ears. It's obvious Max is helping her study, a feat she's never been capable of doing on her own because of her innate ability to get easily distracted; but that's not what creates the ball of anger and possessiveness in the hollow of his gut. That is reserved for the innocent but cruel gesture of his supposedly loyal friend as he reaches out, twines the disobedient strands around his fingers and pushes them back, accomplishing what she had not by tucking them neatly behind her ear.

The genuine smile she flashes Max feeds the furious knot, teeth instinctively grinding together. Torn between marching forward and tearing the two apart or stalking away, all Michael manages to do is root himself in that one spot. The gentle greens of Maria's gaze flutters back to the book in Max's lap but Michael catches the blush she's trying to mask. A growl furrows in the back of his throat and pain clenches his chest with more strength than any nightmare he's ever experienced.

The man known as Michael's best friend looks up at the ferocious sound he's unwittingly released, and Max's once warm grin falls. He tries to catch himself before it can drop all the way but he's not fast enough and Michael sees the guilt before it vanishes. He's not supposed to care, this should mean nothing to him, but it does. It means everything and he can't fight his anger as it rises. The line of his jaw hardens and his brows narrow in disgusted betrayal. Logically he knows Max's heart belongs to Liz, reasonably he understands that the gesture was nothing more than casual, meaningless flirting for the sake of something good amongst all the bad of the summer. Common sense is not his strong suit and process of thought is abandoned.

Max stands abruptly as Michael charges, the book on his lap careening to the floor, the woman at his side jolting in confused uncertainty.

"Bastard," is all Michael can muster, his legs devouring the rows of seats and his fist connecting with Max's face before he realizes he's lifted his arm.

The blow is stiff and crude but effective and it sends Max back. The falling man hazardously lands atop a still dazed Maria whose only reaction is a high-pitched cry of, "Oh my god!" as her back is rammed into the row of seats above her. Max's lofty weight crushes her sideways into the concrete frame of the bleachers and for a moment no one breathes, bystanders hushed into silence by the brutal show. Michael feels their damning gazes baring down on him but he can only concentrate on the woman pinned beneath a mass of heavy muscle. Denial surges through him, denial and abhorrence that multiply twofold as Maria's sea of emerald darkens with tears of pain.

Shame washes over him in tidal waves, fueled by the look of murderous disgust Max blasts his way after he's frantically pushed away from the crumpled woman. Immediately Max is in his face, his palms shooting out to push on Michael's shoulders. He goes with the shove, dull eyes refusing to tear away from the agonizing sight of Maria struggling to sit up.

"What the hell was that, Michael!" Max shouts at him, shoving him back again, the momentum forcing the stunned man down a row.

Michael doesn't respond because he can barely feel his tongue beyond the storm raging in his head. Fear of hurting her was the reason he'd ended their relationship. Hurting her was the one immutable thing he swore never to do. Hurting her is what he's done. There's no chance of proper thought, no ability for full sentences as he's confronted with the truth. No matter what he does or doesn't do, in the end he hurts people. The intangible ghosts from his dreams are no longer figments, but reality and it drowns out Max's curses, numbs the feel of being shoved back again and again.

All he sees is Maria's questioning pain as she peers up at him. All he feels is his gut twisting and curling. There's a message in her gaze that he can't bring himself to decipher because deep down he knows its forgiveness and empathy. She sees the dark color as it taints the skin around his eyes. She sees the malicious curves of his burden as they wrinkle his face. She's always seen what he's always tried to hide and it scares him, has always scared him. His only coarse is to run so; he does, runs from her compassion, runs from Max's contempt, runs from his culpability and he doesn't stop.

Before that moment nothing outside of his destiny had been important. Before it, he had been the warrior, the general of a non-existent army from a time long since gone. Before it, survival had been his only thought, honing his powers for the eventual war, the only thing to lace his every breath. An entire summer had been spent learning and striving for that one goal, a full two months consumed by solitary work and restless nights of needed torture. None of it matters anymore.

It's too much for him to bear and the blatant crack she's managed to put in his wall, throttle his every sense. Before he's fully aware of it he's barging into his dingy apartment, the door slamming behind him as he stumbles to the tall standing kitchen counter. Shaky hands grip the faux marble top, his body arching dramatically as his lungs struggle to take in air. He can no longer hold his own weight, his legs buckling under him. He slips down the half wall, his knees violently colliding with the floor, his forehead banging hard with the merciless drywall before him.

He can't breath enough to satiate his lungs, can't see beyond the murky haze of tears he will never shed, can't hear outside the thundering pounds of his throbbing ears. The look in her eyes takes over Pierce's lifeless face, and it haunts him. He can't grasp why this hurts so much, doesn't understand why he's trembling so hard he can barely balance himself on his knees. Worse things have happened to him, worse evils have been inflicted on him and yet this has broken him, shattered his every resolve.

Throughout all of his hardships there is only one time he let himself feel the pain, let the tears come and like now it is because of her. It's always because of her and he doesn't know if he can handle it. She digs under his skin, forces him to react, to feel his pain instead of burying it. The numb he'd forged over the summer, the façade he'd managed to con himself with vanishes and he is left with an unyielding sense of nothingness.

Turning, he pulls out his legs from under him, pressing back into the wall and bending his knees to his chest. His arms drape along his knees, his body taking the familiar and comforting position as his mind reels with new information. All this time he's believed himself to be stronger on his own, a solitary figure in control of every aspect of his life. His emancipation last year is proof of that, but even then she taints it. It was her prompting, her guiding hand that led him to make that decision. In ways he's only grasping now, Maria is the reason he'd been strong enough to walk away from his abusive foster father. It was something he should have done years before, had wanted to do, but never had the strength to do.

She let him breakdown, let him shrink in her arms until he became barely even a boy and then she built him back up, gave him the courage to stand on his own. How did he repay her? He dumped her at the first sign of trouble, and has ignored her since, pretending she means nothing to him, is nothing to him. The disgust on Max's face echoes on his own, his gut twisting with its power. He had no right to do what he did today, no right to try and claim her as his own. He barely has the right to want her like he does and it hurts to think that.

He doesn't stop though, torments himself with memories of all that she's given him, remembers all the times she made herself vulnerable for him when all he could do was shoot her down, lock her out. She's a pain in his ass and it makes him smile. She whines and bitches too much and it makes him laugh. She's the girliest person he's ever met outside of Isabel and it warms him because she's the strongest person he's ever met period. She takes his crap in stride, stands up for herself when he acts like an ass and it makes him proud because she's never let him get away with it. She's a force of nature that he now understands he cannot outrun and for once he doesn't want to.

The grin on his face falls slowly, darkening as he realizes he doesn't stand a chance. There are too many mistakes on his part and today is the clincher. It cuts at him and he curses his thick skull, his perpetual abhorring behavior makes him ill. It weighs on him, prevents him from standing up so he remains on the floor, eyeing the back of his ratty couch until his muscles knot together in protest.

Dusk creeps up on him, the sun suddenly hovering over the horizon. Still he doesn't move, reveling in the pain it brings until a timid sound of knuckles on glass suddenly reverberates in his darkening apartment. He rejects the idea of answering it, certain it's Max come to yell at him. The knock sounds again, forcing him come to terms with having to deal with the insufferable man. Standing turns out to be no easy task, the cramps in his legs pinching as he moves. Bracing against the counter for support, he takes long enough to warrant a more determined rap.

Agitated, he gruffly spits out, "Keep your panties on Maxwell!"

The biting retort he expects never comes and he cranes his neck to peer through the thin glass window at the top of the door and is blinded swiftly by the low angled sun beaming through the compacted sand. Groaning at the assault, he waits for the residual gleam to vanish from his vision before he chances the walk. He anticipates another persistent knock but again his instincts are off and nothing sounds. Begrudgingly, he advances on the door, his sole intent to open the door, glare at Max then slam the door in his face. He has no misgivings on where the guilt lies or on the idiocy of his actions, so he doesn't need a righteous Max preaching at him.

He wrenches the door open, mouth open, ready for a verbal spare only to find empty space. There is no seething Maxwell waiting to assault him with cutting words just a vibrant gleam from the setting sun and the faint sounds of the city before him. He huffs under his breath, confused and even more agitated than before. As he turns to dart back into his apartment a flash of pink meets his gaze. His first thought is Max has gone nuts and is wearing pink out in public. It's quickly shattered when he veers out the open door. Resting heavily against the side of his building, staring off towards the setting sun, is a flowing mane of blond curls. She's silent, perching there, and she doesn't turn to look at him when he takes a step out the door. He doesn't blame her because in the middle of the night he can barely meet his own reflection.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice embarrassingly raw and harsh.

The sound jolts her and she bolts from the wall with a shocked look on her face. The grimace that follows the move churns Michael's stomach because it proves that he really did hurt her. She stands in the middle of the sidewalk, green eyes refusing to meet his. He takes this time to take her in, the churn intensifying when he discovers bruises forming along her right side.

"I… uh," she fumbles suddenly and it mercifully rips his eyes from the dark discoloration.

He doesn't mean to glare coldly, it's his gut reaction, his habit. She responds in kind, crossing her arms over chest, eyes narrowing as she spits, "You gonna let me in or not?"

The fire in her eyes eases the unsettling disgust in his stomach, lets him know he hasn't broken her spirit. Without thinking about the consequences, only of his desires, he steps aside to give her room to slip past him. It surprises him when she takes the offer, her hard stare watching him keenly as she's forced to brush past him. He watches her as she retreats into his apartment, her petite frame an oddly comforting sight within the hollows of his self-imposed prison. As he follows her, closing the door behind him she makes a jutting comment about the dim appearance of the room.

"You have heard of the invention of light bulbs, haven't you?"

It was meant to be biting but he knows she's just being defensive, was supposed to irk him but he's certain she's trying to sound sturdy and indignant. The urge to cross the distance and stand before her is strong and he ignores it, returning to the half wall and leaning against it. She hates silences so he stays quiet waiting for her to decide to fill it. It doesn't take long as she starts to fidget under his stare, becoming more and more unnerved.

"I don't even know why I'm here," she whispers.

He doesn't respond.

Faltering, she pulls arms around her waist, wincing when she grazes a fresh pain along her side. The sight immediately forces regret to mingle with his self-hatred but he keeps his tongue. He wants her to go because just the sight of her is a struggle for his resolve but she's here and it's a miracle so he keeps his voice back, fearing it will make her leave. The wall she's cracked hikes back up over his features, masking him in indifference that he knows will irritate her.

"You can't keep doing this." She's pleading with him, damning tears coating her piecing gaze. "You made your choice. I've given you hundreds of chances to take it back and you ignored me each and every time… you don't get to do what you did today! You don't get to be jealous."

"I wasn't jealous." It's a lie, they both know it and he has to avert his face, bow away from the torment vibrating off of her. She sighs hotly, the viral sound making him tense.

"You never think, Michael." She starts again, louder, angrier, closer. "You hurt your best friend today for nothing."

"I," he begins, wanting to defend himself but stops because he can't do it, doesn't deserve it.

"You hurt me," she whispers, a shaky uncertainty lacing her words and it tears at him.

"I didn't mean to!" His voice finds him and belts the words, desperate for her to understand he never meant to, would never mean to.

"I know!" she cries back, closer still and it forces him to glance back up. Barely two feet from him, pain glaring blatantly up at him, it's daunting and horrific but it's nothing compared to the sudden compassion that takes the place of pain. "You never meant to hurt Max either. You were just lashing out at something physical because… you can't attack what's really bothering you."

There's too much truth in her words and it enrages him. Without thought he's inches from her face, dark, seething eyes glaring down at her. "You have no idea what the hell it is you're talking about."

Anyone else would have cowered away from the unyielding fury raging from him, anyone else would have run from the danger seeping from his pores. Not Maria. She stands tall before him, matching his rage with her own, taking a guarded and tumultuous stand only she can manage. "You may be able to hide it from the rest of them behind that grumpy mask of yours but I see it, Michael! I know you. You aren't sleeping enough. You haven't been for months."

He can't handle his unsettling truth blazing up at him from her innocent, docile features. It's too personal, too much of an attack on his determination and he lashes out verbally as he grabs her bruise-less arm. "Get out!"

His heart is racing, his mind chaotically spinning as he physically tries to eject her from his life, pushing her towards the door. She fights him, wrenching and tugging at his grip but it's futile. There's no room for thought because if he stalls, if he pauses she will be right and the fissure in his wall will explode. Purposefully and with condemning force, she twists in his grips at the last steps to the door, placing herself between him and the imposed exit. The momentum is there, tangible, touchable and he can't fight it. Before either has time to react his weight is ramming her into the door, crushing her, siphoning a muted cry from her bee sting lips as her tender back meets the rim of the windowed door.

For a moment neither can breathe or move, stunned into a deafening silence. He's done it again, he's hurt her and it kills him. Tears form before he can prevent them, his hand on her arm dropping, feeling suddenly burnt and scarred. He tries to back away, guilt slashing his face in gruesome contortions but her hands are on clamping on his shirt before he can flee fully.

"You didn't mean to."

Her voice is strong but soft, stern but loving and he screws shut his eyes, blocking out it out. Large hands wrap around her smaller ones, intending to pull them away but lacking the energy to do it. She digs deeper into the black cloth of his tee in response, caressing him through the fabric as she bluntly whispers, "You didn't mean to."

His shoulders wrack with the momentous meaning in her words and he hates it, hates the weak tremors. Suddenly her lithe body presses against him, her hands slipping up despite his grip on them.

"You didn't murder him," she exhales, warm breath drifting over the skin of his straining neck muscles.

"Don't," he pleads. He doesn't mean to speak them, doesn't mean to sound so pathetic but he's fracturing under her touch. This isn't supposed to happen. There is no forgiveness for him. He's a monster.

"It was self-defense."

He knows she's right but he can't bring himself to think it. Too much time has been spent pretending, too much time to take back.

"Michael," she murmurs, demure fingers winding around his neck, clasping around the back, pressing comfort and intent with gentle movements. It makes keeping his hands on her wrists impossible and he releases her, lets them glide down her arms, down her torso to her apex of her hips. He holds her firmly as she coaxes his eyes open with nimble fingers delving into fine hairs.

For the first time he realizes he's crying, full-fledged tears blurring his vision, drowning out her face before him. She moves closer, leveraging herself up his body and starts to gingerly kiss the salt drops away. The ungodly kind act drags a gargled sob from him and she soothes him with her lips. The trembles are worse now and the man crumbles, dipping into her, pulling her up to him, burrowing in her neck. He can barely feel her consoling him but he hears her murmur one last time, "You didn't murder him," and it's his undoing.

Pierce's death is suddenly no longer the valiant act of a soldier but of a scared man protecting himself and the thought tears at him, drags a tormented sob from his lips. The nightmares are no longer reminders but taunts and it threatens to suffocate him. There is no warrior within him, just a scared little boy using a fraudulent foretelling of fate to hide from a woman who with a single look, a single touch could shatter every last wall he owns, crushing in seconds what he had spent endless months creating.

It dawns on him that his hiding, his running, every act he's taken over the summer to further himself from the others was solely intended to further himself from her. It had nothing to do with destiny and even less to do with being Max's second in command. He's a coward, running from the most intense pair of knowing eyes he's ever encountered because they succeed in peering past his guises to see a man he didn't think was worthy of much, if anything, let alone her love. She's reduced him to that boy again and his only recourse is to cling to the one thing he can trust never to fail him, the one thing that chases away the dark. Her breath is warm against his ear as she whispers comforting, indecipherable words and it doesn't matter that he can't understand them.

The horizon has consumed the sun by the time he can muster a voice and all he can manage is a pitiful plea for her to stay with him. He can't sleep on his own, he needs her and as scary as it once was to him it's a source of strength now.

She doesn't answer him with words, simply releases his neck, takes his hand in hers and leads him deeper into his apartment. The tears subside by the time they reach his room but he doesn't feel embarrassed for having shed them. Sitting him down on the bed, she smiles tenderly at him before snatching up the only T-shirt of his she likes and disappears out the room. He knows she's gone to change in the bathroom, away from his prying eyes and it's okay with him because tonight isn't about sex.

His exhaustion weighs on him, his mind a blurry flog of droopiness from the emotional release. Sluggishly he removes his shoes, his head barely able to concentrate long enough to peel off his socks then stand to remove his pants. When Maria returns, draped only in his tee, he's sitting back on the edge of his bed in his boxers and shirt. Were he in the right state of mind, the sight of her bare legs would have been sinful but he can't think past the need to sleep.

Wordlessly she ushers him back and he goes willingly, too lax to fight. She doesn't spoon around him, doesn't let him spoon her. Instead she anchors a pillow against the wall and leans back, legs stretching out before her. When he questions her with his gaze she motions to her thigh with a warm smile.

"Come on," she murmurs, luring him to her.

He rests his head in the nook of her hip and thigh, the top of his head pressing faintly into her stomach. It should have felt awkward to be lying in her lap but it isn't. It's the most sheltered feeling he has ever felt. She amplifies it when her hand dips into his lengthy hair, caressing it back in smooth, tender motions.

"Sleep."

It's a gentle command and he nuzzles against her in response, brushing his lips over her milky white thigh in a languid kiss. The strokes of her hands deepen, the warm act lulling his eyes closed. Without fully intending to, he's asleep in seconds with an arm draping across her legs so his hand can grasp her left hip while his head rests on her right.

When he wakes he expects pain, fear, darkness. He finds none of it. He's content and safe, still curled against her legs. There is no nightmare, no night, simply a haze of yellow from an early rising sun. He's slept through the night and the thought makes him chuckle softly. The form beneath and beside him shifts at the sound, her dormant hand braced in his hair dipping back through the strands. When he looks up he finds her tiredly smiling down at him over the rim of a book. The lamp beside his bed lights her face where the sun's rays cannot reach and it's the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.

"Morning," she wisps, a sheepish look on her face as she drops the hand holding the book.

He reads the title and raises a brow at her smugly when he realizes she's reading 'Ulysses'. She laughs nervously and places the novel on the bedside table.

"It's good," she whispers, fingering the author's name softly. "A little over my head but you can explain some of it to me later."

Her voice is slumberous and Michael notes the exhaustion tainting her face. "Did you sleep?"

"A little," she returns, massaging the back of his neck tenderly. "You kept starting to have a nightmare and I didn't want to chance sleeping through it."

There aren't words to thank her and he feels suddenly guilty for depriving her of sleep. Pulling away, he sits up, drawing his knees to his chest. She's always giving to him and he's always taking. It's not supposed to work like that but before the thought can ravage him there's shifting behind him. Her hands find his back and start kneading his sore muscles before he can refuse her. Turning swiftly, he stalls her hands with his, eyeing her poignantly.

"You've done more than enough, you don't," he starts and she stops him.

"Don't worry Spaceboy," she coyly taunts. "I'll have you paying me back sooner or later."

It's a promise for tomorrow and every tomorrow after that and it stirs a deep appreciation in him. She moves before he can act, slipping from the bed and disappearing out the door, tossing over her shoulder, "I should go before Mom decides to kill me."

He doesn't want her to go, doesn't think he'll be able to sleep without her by his side but can't ask her to stay. Following her out of the room, he realizes she's in the bathroom changing so he moves to the kitchen, starting the base of what he hopes to be a new ritual, their ritual. When she immerges from the room he's got a cup of coffee waiting for her and is making her toast. It's not much but it's the best he can give her on such short notice. She doesn't enter the kitchen and he tries not to read into it. Standing on the opposite side of the half wall, she cradles her coffee, never meeting his gaze.

The toast is placed before her as a peace offering he hopes she accepts. Her smile is genuine but doesn't reach her eyes. It confuses him, throws him off balance. Was it stupid to think one night would change things, make them better? Does she think it was just one night? He can't decide and her behavior is irking him. Taking matters into his own hands, he rounds the counter, coming to stand beside her. She questions him with her eyes, releasing the simpering mug and turning to meet him face to face.

Nerves make him fumble, make him feel like a twelve year old coward and he's oddly infatuated with the way she does that to him. "Did," he trails off, apprehensive about finishing the thought.

She senses it, offering him reassurance with a single look that endears him to her further.

"Would you," he starts again, more firm and decisive. "Like to do something tonight? With me?" The look she gives him is a mix of curiosity and mirth and he can't help but return the grin.

"I can't," she tells him, smiling broadly when he frowns despondently. "I have a shift, tonight," she explains, laughing when he sighs with relief. "But if you happened to show up during one of my breaks…"

It's an invitation he doesn't think twice about jumping on. "I'll be there."

"Good," she jabs lightly, picking up her discarded coffee and sipping a few more times before putting it back down. Pensiveness devours her and she hesitated before finding his gaze again. "Look… I can't deal with the whole destiny thing. That's not who you are and I'm not going to be around with you pretending all the time."

It's straightforward and to the point and he expects nothing less from her. "I have a destiny-"

She rolls her eyes and starts to turn so he sticks out his arm to stop her. Leaning down so he's inches from her face he explains, "No matter how much you don't like it's there."

"I know," she mutters.

"Good," he jabs, echoing her. "I'm not going to stop trying to better myself so that when the day comes and I have to fight for my life, your life, I'm ready." She seems to accept that so he continues, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I can't make a lot of promises but I…" He wants to tell her the revelations he's had but he doesn't know how without sounding utterly pathetic so he sticks to simple truth. "I'll be here for you. As long as it's physically possible, I'll be here."

She takes her time digesting the words and it makes him nervous. He needs her but he can't admit it to her just yet. There is still too much he has to sort through, a lot of dark in his mind he has to right. He can only hope she's willing to take him a little at a time, deal with his idiosyncrasies and wait for him to get past them. He's so lost in thought he doesn't register her pulling away until she's downing the last of her coffee and heading towards the door. She pauses there and he's shattered by the possibility that she's turning him down.

"My first break's at five but if you uh want to come later I have another around eight." She's blushing, a crimson rose color lighting her grinning cheeks.

It steals his breath away and his only retort is a barely mustered, "How's about both?"

The grin she's wearing bursts out, the blush deepening and she ducks to cover it. She's muttering something under her breath and he's trying to decipher it when she forces the thought from his mind with her lips against his. It's a tame kiss of opened mouths without tongue, lips brushing slowly in tandem but it's passionate and raw. He doesn't dare deepen it because it's been so long and it feels just right the way it is, soft, barely there and deeply meaningful. She's gone without a moment's notice, opening the door as he's opening his eyes, leaving him dumbfounded and utterly content about it.

It took her gentle voice, her words of truth, for him to realize he's not the emotionless soldier killing because it's his duty. She had to remind him that he was acting out of self-preservation, a human need to protect his family. The nightmares will still come, one night doesn't change that but knowing he has her to turn to, to understand him is enough to make them less frightening, to let him know he's going to get passed it and survive. He has her back and that's all that matters.

The End.


End file.
